


The Magician Acts

by DrWorm



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Dubious Morality, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 11:28:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2810537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrWorm/pseuds/DrWorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Magicians are almost never actors. To James, it seems unfair that Michael should be able to do both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Magician Acts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Knowmefirst](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Knowmefirst/gifts).



The world is not fair, and so he had never become a magician. The world is not fair, and so the thing he wanted most in the desperate covetousness of his childhood was denied, and passed on instead to those who wanted it less and who could never love it with a love as pure and fierce as his own. As an adult, he loved it even more, and that love boiled off the vapor of his childhood dreams into a wanting so hot and melancholy that he could scarcely swallow it down in polite company.

James watched the SFX magicians as they constructed the X-Jet, built it up before his eyes out of light and spells and, for all he knew, whatever water molecules and motes of dust were handy. He wished he did know, but he also understood that any explanation they gave him would be unintelligible, and the reminder of his ignorance would make his insides writhe, like a snake so jealous of its own tail that the only option left was self-cannibalism.

He bent his arm at the elbow, and the synthetic leather of his jumpsuit crackled as he put new creases into it. The jumpsuits had been magically tailored to fit each of them, which was a process that James had never personally been through before—but then, he'd never done such a big-budget, effects-heavy picture before. He tugged at the collar of the suit and fiddled with the zipper. The costumers had shrunk the jumpsuit into a fit so close as to be claustrophobic, and he felt more conscious of the need to stand up straight and hold his chin up so that he looked taller.

The SFX team had finished detailing the nose of the jet and moved on to the wings. James looked away. Behind him, Michael and Jen were goofing off. Michael said something James couldn't hear, and Jen raised a fist to slug him in the arm. But Michael blocked her with a hasty shield, his fingers leaving shimmering trails in the air as he contorted them wildly to cast the spell.

Her fist froze in the air, unable to make contact with her target. She yelled something, her wide open mouth a dark wound in her blue make-up. James thought he caught the words “show off,” then realized that they could just as easily have come from his own mind as from Jen's mouth.

Michael was the only actor on-set who was a magician. He'd been classically trained at all the right schools— _show off show off show off_ —but had turned right around after college and decided to be an actor. James had never met a magician who had become an actor before, and those he had heard about had been pathetic, washed-up sad-sacks who had failed at both pursuits. Acting was not a kind of magic, no matter what James's mother said to him about “the magic of performance,” which was only a concentrated type of delusion. Delusion wasn't magic, no matter how nicely you dressed it up, because magic was real and all around them and yet totally inaccessible to James and to Jen and to Kevin and to Zoe and to all of them except Michael.

James watched as Jen stalked off, playing her indignation as more acute than it could ever truly be. But when Michael looked in his direction, he looked away, even though he knew it was too late. Michael was coming over. Michael wanted to be friends.

Moments later, James heard a tinny sound beside him, like a delicate windchime in a high breeze. He turned. There was Michael, as he'd expected, and between his open palms he held a miniature rainbow. The sound of tinkling windchimes seemed to be coming from the rainbow itself.

“Cheer up,” Michael said. He moved his hands back and forth, playing the rainbow like an accordion.

“I'm cheered,” James said, feeling exactly the opposite. “I'm plenty cheered. Put that away.”

Michael closed his palms. “You look gloomy.”

“I'm ready to be done for the day.”

“Ha!” Michael clapped, once. The rainbow had vanished. “We've hardly begun.” He put his hands to his hips, patting himself as if he were looking for pants pockets. “Ah, hell,” he muttered. “I'll be glad when we can get out of these, anyway.”

“It'll be at least a week. We wear them in the jet, on the beach...”

“Fantastic.” The material of Michael's jumpsuit creaked as he moved, just as James's did. It was a subtle reminder of the other's presence, this constant strain of plastic folding and rubbing against plastic. Together they watched the SFX magicians as they came to the end of the wings and several on the team went around to the back to get a start on the tail. It was an empty shell, a piece of set dressing. For interior scenes, some design magicians would work with the SFX team to build a room with actual prop pieces that could be touched. As far as James knew, his hand would go right through the jet, no matter how real it looked. But he wasn't about to try it, since SFX magicians were notoriously irritable about the integrity of their creations. “What a monster,” Michael said.

“It's interesting.”

“I guess it's better than hanging around waiting for it to be finished like we are.”

“Would you rather be doing something like that, then? Instead of acting?”

Michael shook his head. “If I wanted to get paid to be a magician,” he said, then stretched and yawned without covering his mouth, “then I would have gone out and done that.”

“Oh,” James said. They stood together for a moment, not talking, until the silence became so awkward for James that he was ready to excuse himself to go get coffee.

Then Michael said, “We should hang out tonight.”

“And do what?”

“Nothing special,” Michael said. “But it gets boring at night, in the hotel. You know.”

James didn't find it particularly boring, certainly not with the punishing schedule they were on, but Michael was being friendly, and James wanted to have a good working relationship with Michael, at the very least. There was no reason for them not to be friends, perhaps even good friends, friends who would stay in touch after the film wrapped. And yet, it was difficult to be friends with people who made your envy rise and beg to be let loose, so James hesitated a moment before saying, “Yes. All right.”

 

* * *

 

Michael's hotel suite was the mirror image of his own, and featured a two beds, a kitchenette, a desk, a TV, a coffee table, and a loveseat all arranged awkwardly in a single room. James had arrived there after being released from the studio, taking a shower, and changing into clothes that didn't protest every time he moved. Michael met him at the door with a beer, invited him to sit down on the loveseat, and then said, “You don't like magic much, do you?”

James set his beer down on the coffee table. “I like it,” he said.

“Oh. Well, you're not very comfortable around it.” James's response to this accusation was a shrug, and so Michael pressed on. “I've met lots of people who don't like it much. It makes them uncomfortable.” He sipped his own beer and stared at the black and silent TV screen in front of them. “Probably because of the—”

“Elitism?”

Michael blinked and turned to face James. “I was going to say, I don't know, because of the whole cosmic oneness or something.”

“But it _is_ elitist.”

“So's acting,” Michael grinned. His smile stretched his face to the sides. It made him less handsome, but more endearing.

“No one's born with acting already inside them.”

“Still. Some people will always be better than others.” There was no defensiveness in Michael's voice, no petty, nasty harmonics beneath the surface. He clapped his hands on his thighs, stood, and said, “I'm going to make popcorn, I think.” James did not object, and so Michael took a back from an open box on the tiny counter of his kitchenette, unfolded it, stuck it in the microwave, and set the timer. The microwave whirred to life, and over its droning hum, he said, “What do you think about mutants?”

“What?”

“X-Men stuff.”

“Oh,” James flicked a hand out dismissively. “That's not real.”

“It's like magic though.”

“Not really. It's got limits.” James narrowed his eyes. “ _You_ can move anything you care to. It doesn't have to be metal.”

“True,” Michael chuckled. “But I'm out of shape. Anything more than fifty pounds, and I start to sweat.” The microwave beeped three times. Without touching the microwave, Michael popped open the door and floated the bag of popcorn into his waiting hands. “And that's a lot harder than it looks, I'll have you know,” he said, holding up the round bag of popcorn. “So much easier to just—” And he tossed the bag at James, who flinched and just barely managed to catch it and hold on. “And then there's shapeshifting. Magic's far too lazy for doing that properly. Easier just to cover yourself in illusions.”

“But you can still do it,” James pointed out. He shook his head. “Anyway, mutants aren't magic. They're mutants. It's just fantasy. People like it.”

“Yeah,” Michael said, sitting back down and taking the popcorn back from James. “They like mutants in their movies, but aren't so sure about magicians.” He shrugged. “But what if we were mutants?”

“They haven't found any conclusive origin for magic yet.”

“But it could be a mutation.”

“It could.” James picked up his beer so that his hands could have something to do. “I don't think it'd change much.” He smiled wanly. “At least none of you can mind read,” he said, holding two fingers up to his temple in the gesture he'd decided to use to illustrate telepathy. The signal seemed childish and insipid now, a product of his own non-understanding of magic, and so he let his hand drop back onto the armrest.

Michael opened the bag of popcorn and took a handful. “I've heard rumors.”

“Everyone has. They're urban myths.”

“Yeah,” Michael said. He put the handful of popcorn into his mouth, making James wait while he chewed and swallowed. “But I think my rumors carry a little more weight than yours.” And there, finally, was a touch of meanness, a sharp little edge, to remind James that he was not a magician and never could be.

“Well, then?”

“Oh there's supposed to be a handful of them out there,” Michael shrugged. “They keep it quiet. It's a neat trick, but it only works if no one thinks you can do it, right?”

“Well, can they just read thoughts, or can they mess about with memories as well?”

“Who knows?” Michael picked up the remote and offered it to James. “You want to watch something?”

“I don't care.” Instead, James took the popcorn from Michael, tipped his head back, and shook some into his open mouth.

Michael turned on the TV, hit mute, and began to flip through the channels so fast that he couldn't possibly have known what it was he was skipping over. “What about dinner?” he asked after he'd given his thumb a momentary rest and stopped on a cooking show, where a peppy brunette was swirling her nearly finished dish around and around in a sizable wok.

“I'm not that hungry,” James said. He shook the bag of popcorn and stared down into it.

The cooking show became a football game and then an ad for Windex as Michael resumed his search through the channels. “Listen,” he said, not taking his eyes off the TV. “You want to be a magician.” James did not bother to confirm this, or even to ask Michael what had tipped him off; he had lived with his desire for so long that it seemed reasonable that everyone he met would know his feelings as well as he did. “So, what if I knew how to make you one?”

James sat for a moment, staring at his hands and the bag of popcorn he still held between them. “You're joking,” he said. Then he jerked his arm and threw the popcorn at Michael, who flinched. The bag hit the side of his head and bounced down to the floor. There was popcorn on the couch now, and on Michael. “There's no way,” James said, his voice higher than normal. “Don't joke. Don't joke about that.”

“OK.” Michael held up his hands. “You're right. I don't know if it's true. But it could be.”

“Just another rumor.”

“Yeah, I guess. But I've heard it more than once.” Michael lifted one leg up on the couch, turning his whole body to face James. “More than a few times, really.”

James dragged both hands over his face. “So what?” he mumbled.

“I'm not trying to hurt you, all right? I'm not just fucking with you.” Michael lifted the tip of his thumb to his mouth and worried at the nail between his teeth. “It might be possible to, sometimes, give magic to someone else.”

“Like a present?”

“Like a disease.”

“Ha!” James shook his head. “If you could spread magic around by sneezing on people, I don't think—”

“Not that kind of disease,” Michael said. He toyed with the remote, flipping it from hand to hand. “How many mixed marriages can you think of?”

“Mixed—what?”

“Magic and not-magic, I mean.”

“That's an awfully old-fashioned way to describe it.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “Probably. Who cares? The point is that I know _you_ can't name any. And neither can I.”

“All that proves is that magicians only care about other magicians.”

“But here's the thing,” Michael said, leaning in closer to James and lowering his voice. “I _have_ known magicians who dated normal people.” He put his hand on James's knee and squeezed. James didn't try to move away. “It's just, they didn't stay normal for long.”

“What?”

“It's like, something about the—the _intimacy_ —”

“The sex, you mean?”

The pressure on James's knee eased slightly, as if Michael were preparing to withdraw. “Yes.”

James raised his eyebrows. “You're saying magic is like an STD.”

“Well. Maybe.” Michael lifted his hand and leaned back. “Or maybe the magic was already there, but not accessible until...”

James rubbed a hand down his thigh and over his knee, where Michael had touched him. “Why?”

“No idea. Maybe it even has to do with—”

“I mean, why are you telling me this?”

Michael tilted his head to one side, as if he were appraising James. “Doesn't it make you happy? That you might have a chance to get what you want?”

“But how—”

“Have you been with a man before?” He said it casually, as if it were no more significant than asking if James had ever tried octopus or frog legs or escargot. When James didn't answer right away, he added, “I think you're attractive.”

“Yes,” James said. “Well, I've built a decent career on it.” He had to fight down the urge to laugh in Michael's face. “And, I'm sorry, but this is the most creative come-on I've ever gotten.”

Michael brushed his fingers over James's upper arm, up the curve of his shoulder. “We don't have to do anything,” he said. “We don't ever have to talk about it again. But I had to put it out there, for you to decide.”

James thought. He thought about desire and chances and disappointment. He stared at the TV. Michael had stopped it on an old movie, and James recognized it immediately as _Bell, Book, and Candle_. Fighting down a wave of wild laughter, James reached for the remote, turned off the TV, and made an easy decision. “I don't think it'll work,” he said, “but all right.”

Michael smiled, but there was a hint of uncertainty in the curve of his lips and furrow between his eyebrows. “Can I kiss you?”

“All right.” Michael leaned in, and James did not move to meet him. He remained passive as Michael touched his lips first to James cheek, then to his lips. James opened his mouth when Michael began to kiss in earnest. Michael's kisses were wet, intense, almost sloppy, and the loveseat began to feel as if it were caging them in. Neither made any suggestion that they should move to the bed, however. One of Michael's hands moved to James's thigh while the other circled around his shoulders, embracing him. James felt secure, and yet it occurred to him that this kind of security wasn't too far off from being trapped. Still, it felt good.

Michael broke away from the kiss and whispered, “I want to suck your cock.” Then he kissed James's earlobe, closing it between his lips and flicking his tongue over the flesh.

“Go on, then,” James said. He felt his belt slither apart, the button on his jeans pop open, and the zipper travel down under its own power. Then Michael was bending over James's lap, pushing his thighs open and cupping his cock through the thin material of his underwear. Then he lifted the elastic waist and took the head of James's cock into his mouth. He sucked hard, without teasing, and James sighed as he grew erect. Michael's hand wrapped around the base of his cock, and James felt a funny, subtle vibration stirring there. He looked down and saw tiny pinpricks of light, fairy lights, flickering between Michael's fingers. “Ah!” James breathed, and then said, “Just jerk me off.”

Michael turned his face up, kissed the head of James's cock, and said, “Like this?” The lights moved faster and the vibration grew stronger as he moved his hand up and down.

“Yes, just like that,” James panted. He lifted his hips to counter Michael's rhythm. He knew he was going to come too quickly and he didn't care. When Michael tried to slow down and prolong it, he said, “No. No teasing.”

“You want to come now?”

“Yes, yes.” And the lights strobed while the vibrations increased, until they throbbed in time with his climax, and James's muscles locked and trembled as he came across Michael's waiting lips. He closed his eyes and breathed harshly as he shuddered and relaxed. He could hear the small, wet sounds of Michael licking up his come and felt faintly disgusted by the idea. Then the couch cushions shifted beneath him as Michael leaned back. James opened his eyes and looked down at himself, then hurriedly pulled up his underwear and zipped up his jeans. He heard the rustle of a belt and the ripping of a zipper being lowered and knew Michael was doing exactly the opposite beside him. “Your turn?”

Michael gave his own cock several hard tugs. “Go on,” he said.

James leaned over and tried to make himself comfortable in the limited space of the loveseat. He took the head of Michael's cock in his mouth and tasted sharp, salty precome. He swallowed hurriedly. Michael's cock was larger than he'd anticipated, and James could only fit about half of it in his mouth before the discomfort prompted him to lift his head. He was glad that Michael didn't try to force him to go deeper, but instead seemed satisfied enough with the sight of James sucking hard at the head and teasing the tiny slit with his tongue.

“That's it,” Michael said, rocking his hips up. James wrapped one hand around his cock and used the other to cup his scrotum and knead gently. “Ah, fuck. That's the way.” He put a hand in James's hair, stroking it back. “I could watch this for hours.” When James's eyes twitched up, worried, he laughed. “But I'm going to come soon,” he said, with a hitch in his voice. “I can't help it.” James moved his hands faster and sucked harder as the bucking of Michael's hips became more erratic beneath him. Michael groaned under the onslaught, loudly and without inhibition. “I can't, I can't—” And then James felt the thick come in his mouth. It coated his tongue, not unpleasant-tasting but with a consistency that made it difficult to swallow against his gag reflex. “Eat it,” Michael whispered. “Lick it all up.” James did so, thinking of it as consuming Michael's magic, absorbing it into himself. “Now kiss me,” Michael said.

James sat up and kissed him, tasting himself and Michael the same time. The kiss lingered and seemed to go on longer than the sex. But that was all right. He put an arm around Michael's shoulders and Michael put an arm around his waist. “I'm tired,” James said, after what felt like hours.

“You can sleep here.”

“No,” James said. “But thanks.” He unspooled himself from Michael's embrace and stood. Michael was doing up his jeans. James put a hand in his pocket to make sure he still had his room key and felt something else, something he didn't expect to feel. He pulled out a smooth gold ring, a wedding band, and stared at it. “Oh,” he said. “I'm married?” And then it all came flooding back from wherever the past had hidden, that of course he was married, had been married to Anne-Marie for years and very happily so. He looked up at Michael, suddenly afraid. “You said there were only a handful of you,” he said dully.

Michael looked chagrined, and ducked his head under the weight of his deception. “I only know one other magician who can work with people's minds,” he said.

“Because you keep it quiet.”

“Yes. We do.”

James looked at his ring in the palm of his hand, then picked it up and placed it on his finger. “Why? Why did you make me forget?”

“I thought it would make it easier for you—”

“For me to have sex with you?”

“Look,” Michael said, lifting his hands with the palms up, as if he hoped James would place his own hands on top of them and forgive him, “I wanted you to have the chance at magic.”

“So that's true?”

“As far as I know. I didn't lie about that, I didn't leave anything out.” He reached out and took James's hand with both of his before James could pull away. “And it wasn't so bad, was it?”

“No,” James admitted.

“I do like you. I really do.” Michael massaged James's knuckles and threaded their fingers together. “I just thought, if you were thinking about being married, you might have said no.”

“I might have said yes.”

“Would you?”

“I don't know,” James said. His head had begun to ache at the temples. “I'll never know now.”

“I'm sorry,” Michael said. He stood up and hugged James, crushing James's arms between their chests. “And I'm even more sorry, but there are some things I can't have you remember.”

A brief darkness fell over James's eyes and then it passed. His head felt very clear and there was no more pain. He knew he was married, and he had committed adultery, but he wasn't sure whether he thought it was serious or not. He looked up at Michael and smiled uncertainly. Michael was a magician, and maybe now he would be a magician too. Until then, he was an actor playing a man who could read minds. Mind readers were an urban legend. Some things were strictly part of the world of fantasy.

Michael kissed him. “Everything OK?” he asked.

“Yes. I think so.”

“Do you regret what happened? Between us?”

James looked toward the door, then back up at Michael. “No,” he said evenly. “No, I think it's all right.”

Another quick kiss. “Then I'll see you tomorrow at the set,” Michael said, and let him go.

“Good night,” James said. He closed the door to Michael's suite behind him, but stood alone, in the brightly lit hallway, for nearly a minute. Then he put his hands together, palm to palm, as if he were praying. He thought very hard about the space between them, about where that space was and what should fill it. He thought and thought until the thoughts seemed to have a power that was outside of himself, a power that he could feel acting on his flesh, as if he had thought about wind and then felt a puff of air tickling the back of his neck. He opened his hands, spreading them as if he were welcoming a stranger into himself.

Between his hands was a rainbow. It was formless and sick-looking, but still a rainbow. And in his ears he heard the discordant tinkling of far away chimes.


End file.
